


and it was gorgeous

by Bicmydick



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Embedded Images, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hotel Sex, How Do I Tag, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mild Gore, Other, References to Sonic the Hedgehog, Shameless Smut, Song: Hotel Room Service (Pitbull), Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bicmydick/pseuds/Bicmydick
Summary: It isn't long. After all, the key is one of those strange magnetic card ones, the kind Alfred could never truly figure out how they worked but always knew how to use. As soon as the doors open — a firm push granting them access — the Ruski from before has his wrist around Alfred's, pulling him in.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 18





	and it was gorgeous

They were strangers in the night, ruthlessly begging for someone to give them something more. They clung to the simplest of things, porcelain skin, eager eyes, cherry tinted lips. They weren't taking no as an option. Why should they? 

It was their God given right — and they wanted it. _Oh God_ , how they wanted it. It had been so long since something like this had occurred — the way their hearts pounded in their chests as they made their way up to the hotel room, facing an intoxicating view of New York City. 

The lights left on in corporate jobs shone throughout the buildings facing them, reminding them of a world their sure they've never known. It's beautiful, perfect and really anything they could ever hope to be. 

Alfred isn't perfect. He's far from it. He's a mess, especially at the thought of considering this act of indecency. But he wants it, he wants the man before him, the muscles before him flexing ever so slightly as he attempts to unlock the door in front of them both. He wants them both out of their clothes as soon as possible, preferably, the snow-white appearing man first. 

He's barely even caught the other's name — he sounds Russian, though, and so far calling him Ruski hasn't been his worse decision thus far. He thinks he'll stick with that nickname — it suits the other, or at least, he thinks it does. Perhaps in another lifetime he would have recieved a different nickname — a cheesier one. The stary eyed American had always been good at giving those he had just met a nickname or two, if it weren't for the situation he's sure he'd entertain the thought some more.

It isn't long. After all, the key is one of those strange magnetic card ones, the kind Alfred could never truly figure out how they worked but always knew how to use. As soon as the doors open — a firm push granting them access — the Ruski from before has his wrist around Alfred's, pulling him in. 

The doors slammed behind them. They're in a rush, after all, and as strangers in the midst of the night, they want nothing more than to fuel their desires. And of course, get this done and over with. 

They don't bother flicking on the lights — it's dark in their hotel room for one, but the blinds have been pushed open, once again giving them access to a knee crumbling view.

God, it really was gorgeous. He could see cars, now, darting across the streets, showing off their blinding lights. As if a switch had been flicked, the angelic colour of white flashed into a dark red, all before continuing along as normal. He really couldn't imagine anything better then what was now — this scene playing out in front of him.

Well it too, was beautiful. 

The Ruski began to remove his shirt, pulling it over the muscles riveting along his skin in the darkness, the window behind them allowing Alfred just enough light to see what was happening. Alfred followed suit, pulling away his own white shirt he had simply thrown on to leave his house. 

Soon, shortly after their shirts hand been thrown away, their jeans discarded, they were standing in nothing but their undergarments, looking towards eachother like a hunter would it's prey. Beasts. Animals. That's all they really were.

Even in times like this, it showed.

The Russian was first — once again, leading the strange movements that seemingly made up their dance. 

His skin began to pull back, blood splattering against white hotel room walls. Alfred could see every vein and how they beated, a pulse running through them. It started with his face, the slit running down it as a hand began to reach out, guiding the skin away from it's true form.

The hand was black. Pure black. And matted down by what had to have been blood — Alfred knew that feeling all too well. It was constant. The feeling of being constantly sticky, his fur being moist no matter the weather. He much preferred being out of the imprisonment he forced himself into. After all, society didn't take well to things that weren't in it's norm. 

Society. He could do without it, he was sure. This — the view in front of him — was gorgeous. What was there to fear? To hate? Nothing, he told himself, nothing at all.

As the hand continued to tear through the skin, red glowing eyes began to peak from the stringy flesh that pulled apart from itself. The neck began to split apart, too, blue veins popping open and splattering it's now found red hue against the walls.

He followed suit, claws tearing through weak flesh, his legs digging through the stomach he had once fed with nothing but junk. God, how he couldn't wait to eat something classier. A chilli cheese dog, perhaps? 

Once he could see his skin — his real skin, or perhaps, his fur, as one should have called it — he finished the job, slipping out of the ruined meat sack, still covered in tissue that seemed to stick against him. He brushed it off, the feeling slimey to his non-gloved hands. The room looked pitiful at best — as if some sort of double suicide had taken place.

"Sonic." The red eyed blur stood before him, his voice stern. No longer did he front some strange Russian accent — no longer did he sound fake. He pulled out a strange diamond shapped figure, his non-gloved hand wrapped around it. 

It glistened, even in the dark. A chaos emerald.

The former American, now blue-hued beast gasped ever so slightly before a smile appeared across his mussel. "We can go home now, can't we?" He questioned, his words hopeful, tears nearly flooding his eyes. Home. Tails. Amy. His friends — normality. 

The other seemingly nodded in the dark, his body too still drenched with human blood. "We can go home." His voice trembled ever so slightly. "We can go _home_." 

Sonic simply smiled, reaching his bare hand out towards the other. "Let's go home, then. Let's go home, Shadow." 

In another lifetime, perhaps they would have stayed in New York City, pretending that they weren't beasts in human clothing. In another time, Shadow wouldn't have reached for Sonic's hand. But here, now, they finally were on the same playing field. 

Not as enemies, but as friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Furry's, amirite?


End file.
